“I need you to scan this presence.” I said.
“What makes you believe this is a spirit?” He asked.
I considered my answer for a moment.
“I don’t know, but once you begin hearing strange voices, my guess is that it’s time to try a different approach.” I said, realizing that I was thinking out loud more than replying to his question.
The old man looked at me in silence for a moment, trying to read me.
“I hope you can guess my name.” I said with a smile.
“I beg your pardon?” Frank said.
“You were trying to read my thoughts, trying to find out what the voice said. Well, it said,” ‘I hope you can guess my name.’ I added.
The old man shook his head in disapproval. “I hate it when you read my mind,” he confessed, grabbing his pen and writing something down in his notebook. “How do you feel when you are in his presence?” He then asked me.
“I can’t say because I have never been in front of it. But when I feel it, my arms and legs get numb; and out of the blue, I feel weak.” I said, trying to be as honest as possible.
Frank stopped writing and looked up. “Weak? Dizzy?” He asked.
The Sonate reached its climax, making me close my eyes. I was in love with that piece long before Frank was born. It took me to a different time, a specific place—to her, when we were us, when eternal life was bliss. Eternal life was Kamille.
“Amo esta pieza,” I said out loud, letting myself get carried away by the violins. “I love this piece.”
“Perhaps you’re coming down with something, or perhaps you’re losing your mind.” Frank said, breaking the magic of the moment forever.
I opened my eyes and looked at him with a severe expression on my face. “Don’t be ridiculous, old man. I don’t get sick.” I said.
“How long since you have been feeling this presence?” Frank asked, continuing his interrogation.
“Months. But in the last several weeks, I have been feeling it growing stronger, closer.” I explained.
The old man put the pen down on the table and reached for his scotch.
“There are entities—spirits or demons, if you will. Sometimes they get reckless. Other times, they’re sent by others for a purpose.” Frank said, assuming a serious expression just before drinking from the glass.
It had to be the mother of all jokes—dying just to find out that your soul has become the courier of another. A pile of lies, all of it.
“I didn’t come here for a fairy tale,” I said.
Frank put the glass back on the table.
“I know you don’t believe in heaven or hell, and maybe that’s why this is happening to you.” He added.
His assumption really made me furious.
“It is not that I don’t believe. It’s that I haven’t found a reason to do so.” I said in a serious tone. “After more than two centuries, I can honestly tell you that there’s no other godlike creature out there but me,” I continued.
The old man swallowed hard. “Maybe now is when you get your reasons,” he said.
I knew the man: This newfound faith was just a masquerade.
“Fine, if it is a demon, a spirit, an angel, or God himself, just let me know!” I said.
The old man nodded in approval, as if agreeing with me. But I knew better than that.
“Eso es lo que deberías hacer, invitalo a venir,” he suggested, grabbing his pen again. “That’s what you should do—welcome it in. I’ll call the spirits and try to find out something.”
“Just get back at me before you die,” I said, trying to provoke him.
Wisely, the old man ignored my comment and, in all accounts, nodded and kept writing in his notebook. “Your phone number still the same?” he asked.
I moved fast, looking for the exit. “Yes, old man,” I said in a ghostly whisper.
Sometimes I can’t help being so dramatic.
I walked outside and found the full moon again. I stared at it and wondered if she could be looking at it at the same exact moment. I tried to concentrate in the now, but my memories sometimes take the best of me.
I sensed the scent of Frank approaching from inside the house. He stopped just at the back entrance. I knew what he was about to say, and I didn’t want to hear it.
“Don’t say it, old man,” I said without even turning to face him.
I heard him chuckling.
“Maybe you don’t want to hear it, but I will say it anyway,” he said.
Not wanting to hear him, I went up to the heavens, wanting to be closer to the bright satellite above. I felt the wind, the gravity pull asking me back; and I imposed my will over it. I felt free, strong, and alive; and then the words of the old man reached me, making me feel uncomfortable.
“You’re my only friend,” he said from down below.
I flew high and furious, leaving his scent far behind; but his last words still burned in my head. His only friend. Me? The one who had no friends, the man who wished to be with those who didn’t want to have anything to do with him while those who sought him always wanted something in return. I was his only friend?
The silly old man never learned that monsters like him can’t reach the heavens, and that gods like me can’t stay so far down for long.
Chapter 54
The Collectors
March 7, 2005, 9:15 p.m.
Miami
I knew I was going to be late; but for some strange reason, that didn’t bother me at all.
The events that took place that night have kept me thinking. I had my moment with the vigilante, and seeing Frank again was not pleasant. It never is.
The old man will get back at me with his theories, no doubt. Whatever is going on with me is not random; something or someone is trying to grab my attention, but the motive remains hidden to me.
But all is better now that I’m staying in the old apartment. No more sneaking in, taking care not to let Lucy see me. She is also better off in her new place. She needs that.
In these last months, she had been busier than ever. She has been investing all her energy in things that will push her forward both in her career and in her life. I watched how she disconnected herself from what she used to know when she was with Stephen.
She is now deep into her studies and looking forward to her graduation next May.
I have helped her secure the date and time for her exhibition, and she has regained part of the confidence she lost after the breakup.
It has not been easy, considering the fact that she gained at least twenty-five pounds due to her pregnancy; and in this materialistic and shallow Miami society, that was a social kiss of death. I helped by removing every single mirror in her place, and for her part, she made the commitment to not pay attention to pretty much anything else except her canvas.
The result after months of grieving and long hours of intense creativity was what she named The Southern Pearl, a portrait of a young girl posing in front of a wall mirror. The girl is wearing a silver necklace with a beautiful gray pearl pendant, it looks as though she is trying to grab it from the reflection she is seeing. The pretty young girl has red hair. The painting is a portrait of a nine-year-old Lucy and her memories. She explained to me that the girl was the real her looking at the world through a mirror. The pearl is the representation of all the deceptive beauty of the world, and the girl is trying to grab it, not realizing that true beauty has always been within herself, all the time.
What she didn’t mention is that the silver necklace was a faithful representation of the one her mother was wearing the day she was buried. Lucy was nine years old at the time. Even though her claim that the pearl meant all the deceptive beauty in the world was true it also meant the spiritual transformation the lost of her mother had on her. She kept these things from me but I discovered them inside her thoughts.
*******
I arrived at the galleria past 10:30 p.m., and I couldn’t wait to leave. I’m not a people person. I’m
very selective with the places and the people I like to spend my time with. Being inside such a place surrounded by pretentious people was a very dangerous game—for them.
The place’s artificial lighting challenged my vision; and because of it, I had to wear my shades. Even then, I still had a hard time seeing things. I relied mostly on my sense of smell and hearing.
After almost half an hour walking up and down the halls and holding a champagne glass, I felt Lucy’s presence in the building. I noticed her painting. It had been exactly a week since The Southern Pearl was sold; and there she was, hanging on the wall looking down at me. I stood in front of it, unable to find a better place to wait for its creator.
She tried to sneak up on me, but I turned before she could reach for my arm. I saw her big smile. Seeing her that happy meant the world to me.
“For a moment, I thought you were not coming,” she said.
I was silent for a few seconds, awed by how radiant she looked.
She had called my cell phone moments after my introduction to the vigilante early that night and asked me if I was coming to the exhibit.
“I told you I was going to be here,” I said.
“You said 11:00 p.m.,” she replied.
“No, you said 11:00 p.m.,” I clarified.
She knew better than to argue with me, but she loved it anyway. She noticed my shades, and her eyes zeroed in on the bright lamps in the room.
“Is it too bright in here?” she asked.
“Always is,” I answered.
Lucy took the glass of champagne from my hands. “Yeah, like you’re going to drink that!” she said, giggling.
“It stops them from asking me over and over if I want something to drink,” I said, gesturing toward the busboys.
She turned to look at her work and then took a sip of the golden bubbly drink. We stood there looking at the painting for a while.
“Can you believe it?” she asked.
I didn’t have to read her thoughts to know what she was referring to.
“I always knew you would make it,” I said. She turned her head and gave me a huge smile. “Any idea who the buyer is?” I asked.
Lucy shook her head. “An anonymous buyer from New York,” she replied.
“Really? An anonymous admirer? Very interesting. And when is it going to be collected?” I wanted to know.
“It will ship first thing in the morning,” she answered, looking at me intensely.
I stared at the painting, feeling her eyes on me. I felt her nervousness.
“Listen . . ,” she mumbled.
I turned to face her.
“I know that you have never asked me for anything, and I believe you never will. I know that you don’t need it, but I still want to offer you a percentage of the sale,” she said.
I looked toward the long corridor.
“Come, Lucy. Walk with me,” I invited her.
We walked slowly down the corridor, admiring paintings, looking and smiling at each other.
“Before I tell you why I can’t accept your offer, I must first let you know that I’m leaving town,” I said coldly.
I felt her surprise. “Yeah, where are you going?” she asked, pretending not to sound too shocked.
“I will be moving up north,” I added.
“You are moving away for business?” she asked, trying to make things casual.
I shook my head.
“When do you leave?” she asked, wanting to get as much information out of me as possible.
“I will leave in five nights,” I said, pretending to be interested in a small statue.
“When are you coming back?” she insisted.
I stopped close to the statue, silent for a few moments. Lucy studied the figure and knew right away that my only interest was not to answer.
“What are you not saying? That you are not coming back?” she asked, her voice filled with curiosity.
“You have done well all these years under my sponsorship,” I said, turning to look at her. “I have no doubt you will continue to do very well without it,” I added.
Lucy looked around her, as though trying to breathe and speak at the same time. Then she looked back at me.
.
“Why? Why are you taking your sponsorship away? Did I do something wrong?” she asked.
For a moment, I saw that little girl in the painting looking up at me with disappointment. Her gestures made me smile in my own sincere way, fangs and all.
“You artists, can’t you see that this is the only logical end to our little adventure?” I said in an uncommonly sweet way.
“But why are you leaving me alone?” she said with teary eyes.
I couldn’t help but chuckle, amused by the tone of her voice.
“Can’t you see that you no longer need me?” I explained.
Lucy looked straight into my eyes, weighing my words.
“When I met you, you were an eager student full of ambition, hungry for your art. Now you have blossomed into a complete artist with enormous talent and a name to show for it,” I said.
“Yeah, but it has been ten years,” she added.
“It is time,” I continued.
“Ten years of you and me through thick and thin,” she said.
Lucy trained her eyes on me, while I remained silent. I loved the way she tried to make a stand in front of my conclusion.
“This sale made you a brand name and a wealthy artist.” - I said.
“Because of you” - She replied.
I shook my head, “No, because of your talent.”
“You carried me while in college, while in my amateur phase, through bad relationships and bad judgment,” she said, knowing all along that I had already made up my mind.
I couldn’t help but stare at her belly.
“And now it is you who needs to carry on.” My eyes met hers. “And so do I,” I concluded.
Lucy touched her belly. My heart, whatever good was left in it, went out to her.
“It was good seeing you,” I said, getting ready to disappear from her life forever.
“Oh no, don’t you dare leave me like that,” she said, grabbing my hand.
Her gesture stopped me, forcing me to look at her. I took the glass of champagne from her hand.
“Come. The others are probably wondering what’s happening,” she said.
“So you must go,” I advised.
I felt her tight grip on my right hand, her warmth and intensity.
For one moment, I wished I could stay next to her, to become the one who would never leave her alone, to be with her no matter what; but I knew that was impossible. I had no place in her life, nothing more to offer her than an eternity of darkness.
“We must go,” she insisted.
She tried to drag me down the hall, but with no luck. And then she looked at me with the sweetest childlike expression.
“This is my night,” she said.
I didn’t move.
“This is for me,” she pressed.
My lil’ Monet, the one whose shine Stephen had hoped to steal, my gifted artist. How could I say no to her? I would’ve conquered demons just to keep her safe.
My feet seemed to have a will of their own, and I found myself slowly following, although not without hesitation. “I’m not eating,” I said.
“Fine, I’ll eat for the three of us,” she replied as she led me toward the exit.
We walked down the corridor. Her energy was intoxicating, and her radiance was more intense than ever. I looked at her and smiled. I saw the girl I once knew in the woman beside me, and she was happy. She was full of hope, and her future looked brighter than ever.
Stephen had fallen short in his efforts. My lil’ Monet was shining stronger than she ever did.
*******
I hate how I make people feel when I’m with them in a restaurant.
Despite all the nonsense books and movies have perpetrated regarding my kind, we can, and do, sometimes eat. I wouldn’t rec
ommend it due to the painful discomfort our digestive system goes through afterward, but it is something we all can do. I’m sure there’s a medical explanation of how immortals sustain such physical activity, but in the name of everything that’s good in life, why would we want to do such a thing?
Eternal Darkness, Blood King Page 7
